


Arrivals

by Unified Multiversal Theory (nightgigjo)



Series: Marriage Law Loopholes [2]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2019-11-26 08:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18178193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightgigjo/pseuds/Unified%20Multiversal%20Theory
Summary: Several months after Hermione's announcement and abrupt departure from the Wizarding World, refugees begin to appear at Bleecker Street.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Why the Wizarding World Needs Google](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16390337) by [MagdaTheMagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie). 



The first time a natural witch turned up on the doorstep, Wong nearly dropped her through a portal into the nearest police lockup.

To be fair, he’d been answering the doorbell of 177 Bleecker Street for weeks, only to see some configuration of teenage and pre-teen boys (with the occasional girl) running away and laughing. Some punk kid had seen him at the bodega on the corner, no doubt, and decided that he was the man they wanted to torment for the foreseeable future.

That evening, he’d just settled down after dinner to read in his favorite armchair in his own study. Strange and Hermione were out, again, probably engaging in cultural enrichment or something equally dismal. They were perfect for each other, in that respect, which suited Wong just fine. They could talk about all that stuff between themselves, and leave him out of it. 

It was relatively late by then, and a feeble rain was not so much falling as merely appearing on the sidewalk outside, more like a heavy mist than an actual shower. Fog was rolling in, Wong suspected, ushering in one of those moody November nights that made the Big Apple look more like Victorian London.

Wong had entertained a vain hope that the spitting rain that night would keep those brats away, so he could have some peace for once. 

Almost on cue, the bell had resounded once more, and Wong almost hadn’t bothered to answer at all. Muttering about ridiculous children, he’d grumbled his way down the stairs, making no effort to hurry, in the hopes they’d just give up and go away. If not, he had his revenge planned. He was sorely tempted to let the officers of the 6th Precinct deal with them, abuse of his powers be damned. If it was the same crowd of white boys as before, he’d give it some serious consideration.

Arriving at the door, he threw it open, hoping to at least shock any remaining children into running away without the ensuing laughter.

Which is why he didn’t miss it when the woman flinched.

She was clearly older than the miscreants he’d been expecting, perhaps in her early thirties. Long, bedraggled hair (which might have been blonde when it was clean) hid most of her face. Her tattered clothes were a mismatched collection of what otherwise would have been normal clothing - a dark trench coat covered a threadbare muumuu, her legs sheltered by a pair of baggy jeans, feet in fluffy slippers that had clearly seen better days.

She might have been any given bag lady on the streets of New York City, except for the aura. 

It was a characteristic of the mageborn that Wong had noticed the moment he’d seen Hermione through the portal. He was fairly certain Strange didn’t have the affinity for it yet, Sorcerer Supreme or not, and so Wong had kept it to himself. Let the man learn in his own time. His ego, though considerably less pronounced than when they’d first met, was still too formidable to allow such a thing as being teachable. 

The scowl he’d had in place when he answered the door didn’t disappear entirely, but morphed into a considering frown. “May I help you?” he half-stated, knowing full well why she was here.

“Please, sir, Hermione said to come here. Is she...here?”

The meekness in her voice gave him pause. “She is not,” he stated simply, “but you may come in if you wish.”  

The woman hesitated, turning lamplike gray eyes on him, studying him mutely for what felt like several minutes. Then, with a nod, she darted through the gap he’d left between himself and the door. She didn’t make a sound, but came to stand in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, appearing uncertain now what to do. 

From the looks of her, she needed everything at once: food, sleep, dry clothes, and most definitely a bath. Wong decided to start with the most essential thing first.

“Follow me into the kitchen, and you can have some tea.”

She trailed after him like a shadow.

* * *

 

The kitchen was perhaps the most modern room in the entire building, having been added sometime in the 1950s, if the appliances were anything to go by. It was small, clearly meant for only one cook (again, 1950s), but with just enough space for a small round table and a couple of chairs under the one tiny casement window. He indicated a chair, and the woman sat, watching him intently while he put the kettle on. 

Wong was never one for small talk, and this woman didn’t seem to need to speak, so the room was utterly silent except for the bubbling of water and clunk of the handthrown mug he sat down in front of her. He turned away to retrieve milk and sugar for her, as well as his own cup, which needed no augmentation.

They sat in silence, the woman sipping the hot tea gingerly. The differing scents of the teas intermingled as the cups steamed, the strong black tea faintly sweet and milky not quite overwhelmed by the heady aroma of jasmine from his own cup. It was, Wong considered, not unpleasant.

The creak of hinges heralded the arrival of the Sanctum’s other two current occupants. Wong excused himself and stood, crossing to the door and sticking his head out. 

Strange was apparently being witty. His face wore a sly expression, while Hermione stifled giggles under her hand. She was the first to notice him, and must have somehow sensed the importance of his appearance, because she sobered immediately.

“Wong, what’s happened?”

“You have a visitor.”

Her expression shifted through several emotions, before settling on concerned. “Take me to her.”

“Come,” he said, waving her in.

Hermione slipped past him, and Wong moved to block the doorway before Strange could enter. 

The taller man frowned at him, but didn’t press the issue. “Refugee?”

Wong nodded. “She is uneasy enough around me. Two men with her in a tiny room is too many.”

Strange’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “I see. I’ll make certain she has the room next to Hermione’s.” Turning on his heel, the Sorcerer Supreme went to make himself useful, for once.

Wong returned to the kitchen, but leaned on the wall opposite the table, to give the two women space. Hermione had the other woman in her arms, while the woman wept into her shoulder. 

Hermione lifted her head slightly when Wong came in, catching his eye. “She’ll need clothes, and a bath. I presume Stephen is seeing to some of that?”

“A room, yes,” Wong replied. “Adjoining yours, I believe. When she is ready, you may take her up.”

Hermione nodded, stroking the woman’s hair like a child’s. “There now, love. You let it all out. When you’re done, we’ll get you cleaned up. Then Wong here can fix some supper, can’t you, Wong?”

Wong rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. He knew where he was most needed now. Considering the situation, it was what he would have chosen in the first place, but there was no sense letting on about that. He did, after all, have a reputation to maintain.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

It was late when Hermione finally came down, having settled their new guest into her room for the night. She joined Stephen in his study, as usual, after getting herself a cup of tea from the kitchen. He was there, reading, but immediately put his book down when she appeared in the doorway.

“How is she?”

“Bearing up marvelously, considering,” Hermione replied, wordlessly summoning the blanket from her own bed as she sank gratefully into the chair. 

Stephen nodded, impressed. “You’ve been practicing.”

“Wong will accept nothing less than my best,” she said, shrugging off the compliment.”I’m not certain I could do any less than that now.” She sighed, taking a drink of her tea and leaning back into her chair. “It’s as well, really. Luna will need all my best now.”

“Your friend,” Stephen said, posture straightening. “You told me about her. Wasn’t she married to that creature hunter?”

“That’s what we thought, but apparently they never married.” She hesitated, thinking. “So much of this is not my story to tell. But suffice it to say they were found out, and refused to either marry or have children on command. They tried to escape together, but… well, Luna was captured.”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “They threw the book at her, didn’t they?”

“Not entirely, no, thank Merlin,” Hermione gasped. “No, that would have meant Azkaban, and no one escapes from there. Not anymore, anyway. But throwing a young woman like Luna into prison to rot would be ‘a waste of perfectly good resources’,” she explained caustically. “No, they essentially sold her off. It took months for her to get away again.”

“Wong warned me to be cautious around her. That he and I both should be.”

She was silent for a long time. “She hasn’t told me details, but I don’t really need them to see what that did to her. I just hope what I  _ can _ do for her will be enough.”

Stephen frowned, concerned. “This is not my area of expertise, but if recovering from trauma is anything like recovering from surgery, there will be some things you can do to help her, but even more she must do for herself.” 

“I don’t doubt that at all,” Hermione nodded, hands twisting the edge of the blanket. “I only hope she has the strength to get through this. She always seemed a little out of touch with reality, especially when we were in school. I hope this isn’t too much for her mind to bear.”

“Do what you can,” Stephen said softly, reaching across to cover her hand with his. “That’s all any of us can do.”

Hermione sniffled. “No, that’s true. It just breaks my heart for her, that’s all.”

They sat in silence after that, nothing more there to be said. She wanted company, but did not have conversation to give. It was a thing he could do.

* * *

 

It was three days before Luna came downstairs of her own accord. Hermione had taken food to her in her room, and helped her bathe and find clothing in one of the many vast wardrobes in the Sanctum. 

Washing her hair in particular had been a labor of love. Her pale tresses had been so matted that not all of it had been salvageable, but Hermione had done what she could to fix it. It had taken several oil treatments before she even felt safe putting her comb to it, instead working the matts apart with her fingers. It had taken three separate washes to get as far as she did.

In the end, some of it had been untangleable, and so they had been left until they could be properly dealt with, when Luna was ready.

Hermione had just gone to fetch a tray when she heard soft footfalls in the corridor behind her. “Luna!” Hermione exclaimed, somewhat startled. “I was just bringing your breakfast up.”

“I thought I’d see the kitchen,” she said, in a dreamy tone that was so like her younger self. 

“You’ve seen the kitchen,” Hermione countered, confused. “Your first night here.”

“I may have been there, but I didn’t see it,” Luna replied simply, as though there was no gravity in that statement at all. “But I wish to see it now. Something tells me it has a good aura.”

Hermione looked at her friend askance. She’d been Luna’s doubting Thomas for year s, but now she didn’t really want to push back, not when she was having a rough enough go of it already. “What, um, tells you that?” she asked instead.

“The teacups.”

Not really knowing what to say, Hermione instead led the way down the stairs and through the winding hallways towards the kitchen. Luna padded close behind her, not clinging to her precisely, but definitely not straying far from her friend’s side.

The room was deserted when they arrived, though Wong had clearly been there recently. A pot of something thick and ginger-smelling was bubbling on the stove, and there was a pot of tea and two cups in middle of the table. Hermione stirred the pot and took a deep inhalation. “It’s a rice porridge - congee, I think it’s called.” The aroma was savory, but with a brightness to it she couldn’t identify. She ladled up two small bowls (helpfully left next to the pot) and brought them and a pair of ceramic spoons to the table. 

Luna picked up her spoon, and gazed at it. Hermione peered at what had captured her friend’s attention. Inside the deep bowl was a miniature painting, of a brightly colored bird with long tail feathers that curled in every direction. She peeked into her own spoon and saw a ferocious beast, long wavy ears pointing backwards from its head, curling hair almost like clouds surrounding its face. 

“They’re different,” she thought aloud.

“Of course they are,” Luna replied, turning the spoon back and forth in her hand as though the image could change with the angle of the light. “We need different things.”

Hermione stopped dead, too perplexed to speak for the second time that morning. Instead, she shook her head, and turned her attention to the soup. It was nothing she’d ever expected to enjoy eating for breakfast, but the texture was soothing, and the broth had a subtle spice that warmed her belly even more than the hot tea. 

For the day that was shaping up outside, it was perfect. November had turned suddenly cold, the last few days’ rain turning to ice overnight, riming the kitchen window with frost. 

When she looked up, Luna was tracing spirals in the frost with her left hand, cup of tea nestled in her right. She had managed to eat about half of the soup, at least. And she looked pensive, almost peaceful. A lot like the old Luna.


	3. Chapter 3

They had just begun to settle into a routine by the American Muggle holiday of Thanksgiving. Stephen was the only one who gave even half a thought to celebrating, but between Hermione’s disinterest and Wong’s downright disapproval, they had opted for going out for Chinese, instead.

It was Luna’s first time out of the Sanctum since she’d arrived. The place wasn’t far, and Wong had assured her that they could return any time they liked, but it was Hermione who had demonstrated, opening up a portal from the kitchen directly into Luna’s room upstairs.  Luna had examined the portal with fascination, running her hands along the edges — seriously testing Hermione’s endurance in holding it open, if she were honest — before gravely stepping through and back again with a solemn nod. The ease of exit thus confirmed, they departed for the restaurant, which turned out to be only steps away from their front door, just past the bodega.

The late Thursday afternoon was quiet, evening commuters almost entirely absent from the city streets, at least for those very few minutes they were on them. A few snowflakes fluttered down from fat blankets of lambs-wool clouds, but something in the air promised more than the occasional flurry. Luna turned her head this way and that, taking in this quick glimpse of the neighborhood until they had to duck under the construction awning and step inside.

The restaurant was what Strange affectionately dubbed a “hole in the wall”, earning him a scowl from Wong. Hermione just rolled her eyes. The two never fought, that she’d seen, but they picked and teased and wrangled each other like she’d only seen in very close families, like the Weasleys. 

Shaking off the thought, Hermione turned her attention to her environment, and most importantly, her friend. Luna was handling herself well, though her movements were somewhat shorter and more clipped than Hermione usually associated with the younger witch. She held to the center of their little group, Wong leading them in, Hermione at her side, and Stephen taking up the rear. Luckily it wasn’t the type of place where you had to make up your mind as you stood there. Hermione didn’t mind such things for herself (though Stephen took  _ ages _ to make up his mind), but considering how much of a stretch this was for Luna already, she didn’t want to push it. 

But, as usual, Wong had chosen perfectly.

She wondered about him, sometimes. He was gruff and taciturn, often silent for hours at a time, and he never seemed truly pleased with anything. The best he ever showed was a decisive nod, which was directed at some task he had undertaken, like cleaning his library or brewing a cup of tea. If it passed muster, he would nod, presumably with satisfaction, though his face never showed even a hint of a smile. 

And for all that, he seemed to do exactly the right thing in so many situations. Like tonight. She had been trying to get Luna outdoors for a week — to the park, to the library, anywhere — just to get some sunlight on her face, if nothing else. But Wong had but to make the suggestion of dining out that night, and she had accepted. He hadn’t even been speaking directly to Luna, instead lecturing Stephen on the evils of colonialist narratives. But she had spoken up, agreeing it was a much lovelier idea than roasting a poor turkey, and now they were here.

An older woman, slim and straight-backed, had come to show them to their table, situated in a little nook at the very back of the restaurant, near the kitchens. Evidently Wong was well known here, because the waitstaff never even brought a menu, they just started showing up with food. Within moments, the table was fully laden with dishes of all sorts — cold noodles gleaming with oil and chilies, bamboo baskets full of steamed dumplings, heaps of sauteed green vegetables, a large covered tureen that emitted a rich, spicy aroma. 

Wong chatted cordially (in Chinese) with their hostess, who had remained to oversee the delivery of this veritable banquet, and whose gaze lingered more often than not on Luna, who seemed at the moment to be lost in thought. There was a careful expression on her face, and when she caught Hermione’s eye, an understanding passed between them, unspoken. The woman simply nodded, and after a brief word to Wong in her native language, disappeared into the kitchen.

She returned with a hand-thrown cup, much like they had at the Sanctum, and a teapot made of clear glass, full of hot water. She sat the pot carefully down in front of Luna, who had come out of her daze to stare at the woman intently, eyes following the pot as it descended. 

“Look,” the woman said, as she pulled a gauze bag from the pocket of her apron. She opened the teapot and poured in several small black pellets. Hermione watched, fascinated, as the pellets opened up into long green spirals, turning the water a pale gold.

“It’s tea,” she said appreciatively.

“It’s lovely,” Luna echoed, following the unfurling leaf with her finger. She looked up at the woman, with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“You drink this, you feel better,  _ ba _ ?” the woman said, with an expression of matronly instruction.

“Yes, of course,” Luna replied, still marveling at the swirling leaves. 

With her instructions accepted and confirmed, the hostess departed, leaving the four of them to commence with their meal.

The food was, of course, magnificent. Hermione had very little idea of what everything was, but the capsicums were clearly visible in what inevitably proved to be the hotter dishes. She had gotten Chinese takeaway quite a lot in London, both before she began and Hogwarts and after she’d finished there, but Sichuan cuisine was out of her experience, for some reason. It was probably because of her two best friends’ strong preference for pizza. Ron couldn’t get enough of the stuff, once they’d introduced him to it.

She found she really liked the  _ tan tan  _ noodles, with their slick, spicy coating of chili oil, minced red peppers, and sharp spring onions. Between that and the beef noodle soup, her mouth was delightfully on fire from the various and plentiful doses of capiscum.

Luna was sipping her tea carefully and looking around the room, as if willing this pleasant moment to never fade from her memory. She had dutifully tried some of everything, taking particular delight in the marinated cucumbers and the little steamed buns shaped like peaches. 

Her cheeks were rosy for the first time since she had come to them, and her eyes lit up with a sly spark as she followed their conversation — well, her and  _ Stephen’s _ conversation; he and Wong were having another bout of their usual playful bickering. 

After the meal, when they had done all they could accomplish at table, the four of them strolled home, Stephen and Wong flanking Hermione and Luna as the two women went arm-in-arm, more relaxed than Hermione could remember being in year.


	4. Chapter 4

**** By the new year, the inhabitants of 177A Bleecker Street had settled into something of a routine. Hermione’s mornings belonged to herself. Wong insisted that, the more people who lived in the Sanctum, the more meditation was required to deal with them all. Luna had quickly ousted Stephen from his position as resident night-owl, which left Hermione to herself until nearly noon. She did spend a good chunk of the time in meditation, per Wong’s example, but she also found herself perusing the library for an hour or two every day before joining Wong in the courtyard for training exercises.

It was odd, how much the training of a sorcerer mirrored the schooling she’d gotten as a witch. From an outsider perspective, their lessons resembled martial arts training, or perhaps t’ai chi, but each movement connected some physical aspect of herself with a spiritual manifestation of her power. It was just like learning correct wand movements, in a way, save that her efforts now produced much more graceful motions which flowed into each other seamlessly, incorporating every aspect of herself into a singular being: mind, body and magic. She felt at home in her own skin for the first time in, well, possibly her entire life.

What a change from six months ago, too. The more she uncovered here, in this new life, away from the machinations of the Ministry (and, quite frankly, the  _ press _ ), the more Hermione realized how absolutely miserable she had been. She had thought - no, she had  _ convinced  _ herself that it was fine, that she was making a difference, albeit slowly, that the wheels of progress would eventually turn, that the Wizarding World would someday relinquish its prejudices and hatreds and fears in favor of recognizing the sovereignty and dignity of all beings, respecting and honouring their lives and rights and contributions. 

And then the marriage law had passed, and those hopes had crumbled into dust. If wizards were willing to turn on their own kind out of fear, then they were never going to be convinced to stop infringing on the rights of other species.

Somehow, luck or fate or chance had brought her a way out. 

Doubts plagued her still about the manner of her departure. She woke at night often, wondering if she were only happy here by comparison to the hell she’d been living, whether she were even capable of being happy at all. It grated on her that her story could possibly be so cliched, rescued by some sort of superhero (in a cape, no less), whisked away from her Unfortunate Situation like so many princesses in so many towers. 

But no, it had not been precisely like that. 

Stephen had been the catalyst, certainly - but she had decided to leave. That didn’t stop the niggling feeling in her gut, the one that never quite allowed her to relax into certainty.

_ Focus, _ Hermione chastised herself, noticing that her thoughts had begun to run away with her again.  _ You are here. _

She took a deep breath, then another. Her heartbeat slowed, her shoulders slackened. She trained her attention on the well of her magic, which felt like a cluster of roots, or the center of a web. She felt the ebb and flow of the power coursing through her body like blood in her veins, or neurons firing, permeating every cell, connecting every bit of herself together. 

_ You are here. You are whole. You are enough. _

She felt herself re-center as she repeated the mantra in her mind, allowing the once-alien thoughts to sink past her conscious thoughts. It was, she supposed, a form of self-hypnosis, meditating on a single idea repeatedly. She would have been suspicious of it, before - before the Wizarding World, and after - except that she had already noticed that  _ telling themselves things is exactly what people do _ . She had heard plenty of people trying to convince themselves that inaccurate or unprovable statements  _ really were true _ \-- Muggles are ignorant and closed-minded, Muggleborns are stealing  _ our _ positions in the Ministry, Hogwarts is the safest place in Wizarding Britain -- regardless of what their senses might tell them. Eventually, most people just believed the untruth and doubted their senses.

If nothing else, the mental discipline of Wong’s training was carving out a place in Hermione’s mind where she could trust herself and her perceptions. That was the solid place she had to find. Absolute certainty in herself was the only way she could safely practice sorcery.

Wong’s low baritone permeated her consciousness. “Find your center. Now, once more.”

Taking a deep breath, she concentrated. Hermione opened her eyes, then opened her eyes again.

The world around her now was real, and yet not. The air itself looked more solid, overlaid with cleavage lines, as though a thin layer of reality would peel off whole if you tapped it, like flakes of mica. She reached out a hand to touch the wall beside her, and ripples spread out from her fingertip into infinity.

“I did it,” she whispered, awestruck. 

Wong was inscrutable, as always, but Hermione suspected the slight glint in his eye was satisfaction, maybe even pride. “This is your true practice arena,” he said after a microscopic pause. “You may bend reality to your will, make of it anything you want, if that is what you desire.”

With a wave of his hand, Wong shifted them within the Mirror Dimension, to a place that looked like London. Scenes began to play out in front of her: reuniting with her parents, with Harry and Ron, the three of them living together in a London flat, goblins and centaurs passing by outside in the street, a house-elf in a dapper suit arriving to tea. 

Hermione refocused on him, frowning. “This isn’t real, though. Not here.”

“No,” Wong agreed, “but this is where you can learn to control your power, so that when you bend reality in the real world, you do it properly.”

Hermione turned again, and saw dozens of doors open, releasing hundreds of witches back out into the light, to their freedom. They were ragged, some of them starved, and all of them pale and haggard-looking, as though they’d been away from sunlight for a very long time. She saw other witches, too, leaving their homes by the front door, carrying briefcases and satchels, wearing Muggle clothing, walking down into a tube station or wheeling a bicycle out into the street, each one melting into a crowd of Muggles, who smiled and said good day.

“I can’t make this happen,” Hermione said, half to herself, “can I?”

“The power lies within you,” Wong replied tersely.

“It looks wonderful, it truly does,” she demurred, “but it’s just, well… it feels  _ wrong _ .”

“What is wrong with it?” Wong pressed. “Your people freed, living side by side with both their own kind and other intelligent species, treating each other with respect? What about that is wrong?”

In her mind, something clicked. 

“It’s wrong,” Hermione breathed, “because it’s what  _ I _ want.”

The glint in Wong’s eye transformed at once into a veritable gleam. “And what is wrong with wanting such a thing?”

“Nothing!” Hermione exclaimed, on the edge of exasperation. “Freedom? Happiness? Nothing is wrong with me wanting this! I just… I can’t make people be how I want them to be! If I try, I’m no better than  _ they _ are!”

“But you could change  _ them _ , too,” Wong continued, evidently not done twisting her heart and her conscience wholesale. “The ones who wronged you, who wronged all the witches they have condemned to suffering. You could make certain they never harmed anyone ever again.”

“NO!” Hermione shouted, her hair rising around her on an invisible wind. “I will never be like them. Ever. I will never stoop to their tactics, not even if I could change their minds about  _ everything _ . I refuse to do what is  _ expedient _ just because someone tells me it’s for the ‘greater good’!”

The sound that cut through the resounding silence startled Hermione so much, she staggered backward.

Hermione blinked once, then twice, before she truly registered what she was hearing.

Wong was  _ laughing _ .

“What?” was all she could think to say, as the incongruity of  _ Wong laughing _ hit her like a herd of hippogriffs. 

He sobered almost immediately, but the ghost of a smile played around his lips long afterward. “That was well done.”

If Hermione had been surprised by Wong’s mirth, she was positively floored by his expression of praise. “Wait,” she spit out, “was that a test?”

Wong, back to his usual self, just rolled his eyes as if to say  _ you should know this by now _ . “Everything is a test.”

“Then what was the point of this?” Hermione demanded hotly. “To see how far you could push me until I broke?”

“One point, yes,” Wong agreed. “And you didn’t break, did you?”

Struck, Hermione stopped dead. “No,” she whispered again. “No, I didn’t.”

“You know already what is right, and how to affect change around yourself,” Wong replied cryptically. “You knew from the beginning.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “But I haven’t changed anything, I just…”

“Yes,” Wong nodded. “You just.”

She recalled with astonishing clarity her first moments in the Mirror Dimension this morning, reaching out in wonder, scarcely daring to touch…

Her questioning eyes met Wong’s, and the gleam was back again. She wasn’t certain she would be able to explain it to anyone, but Hermione had the feeling that this joy, this wonder, was the key to  _ everything _ .


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It had only been a matter of time, Stephen supposed, before someone discovered that he and Wong weren’t the only people living in the Sanctum.

It’s not like he’d gone out of his way to hide this from anyone (except Stark, of course, whose nosiness was only matched, thankfully, by his distractibility). But still, he’d hoped that he would have been smart enough to fly under the radar so long as there were very few additional people there.

So when the front door resounded with three heavy, highly mechanical-sounding knocks, he knew the game was up.

It was a gray but still relatively bright winter afternoon, and he was still several feet from the front door when a piece of paper shot under the door directly at his foot, wedging itself between the floor and his boot. Stephen quirked an eyebrow at the curiously thick envelope, which was elaborately decorated and un-stamped.

He was turning it over in his hand when Hermione’s footsteps sounded behind him.

“What is it?” she asked, curiosity and apprehension warring in her voice.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I’m fairly certain Stark delivered it in person.”

“Wait, Tony Stark?” Hermione’s expression was calculating. “He’s the one who gave you advice on creating a media circus, isn’t he?”

“The very same,” Stephen replied laconically. “He is brilliant, but quite insufferable in every single possible permutation.” He examined the envelope critically. It was blank, save for a single embossed “S” in the center of it. Flipping it over, he slid his finger under the flap of the envelope, opening it as precisely as he would have begun a surgical incision. Inside was a single sheet of cream-colored paper as heavy and textured as linen cloth, which glittered slightly in the dim light of the hall.

The card read:

 

Anthony Edward Stark

requests the presence of every resident of

177A Bleecker Street

this Saturday evening

at 9 o’clock

for an evening of cocktails and conversation

RSVP

to [ vpotts@si.net ](mailto:vpotts@si.net)

P.S.: If I have to deliver this thing then you have to come, Strange.

 

 

“Did… did he just _command_ us to attend a drinks party?” Hermione stared at the invitation. 

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe _Stark_ did, no. I am fairly certain this isn’t his idea of a fun night, either.”

Hermione got a playful glint in her eye. “And how do you know that _I_ don’t consider drinks parties to be the peak of entertainment, hm?”

“What, idle chit-chat? Celebrity gossip? Truly the foundations of your personality,” Stephen smirked with a glint of his own.

“You can stop flirting now, Strange, there are adults present,” Wong commented acerbically as he came down the stairs with Luna in tow.

The younger witch was still a bit frail-looking, but she grew gradually healthier every day. Luna had, for some reason which remained a complete mystery to Stephen, gotten quite attached to Wong, following him around like a shadow since her first outing beyond the walls of the Sanctum.

The moment Luna appeared, all of Hermione’s attention was riveted on her. She dropped the flippant demeanor at once, and frowned. “I’m not certain we can accept this, after all.”

“What is this?” Wong inquired, moving to look over Hermione’s shoulder at the note. A tiny crease appeared between his eyebrows and Wong hummed noncommittally.

“What’s the problem?” The question was as much for Hermione as it was for Wong. Stephen didn’t need to read minds to know she was worried about her still-fragile friend.

“I should like it if I had a better idea who we would be meeting,” Hermione demurred, shooting a significant look at the two men. “And specifically what this party might entail.”

“I believe a scouting expedition could be arranged,” Stephen said brightly, already opening a portal.

“Just find out if I need to get my tux pressed,” Wong commented dryly, as Stephen and Hermione stepped through the portal and disappeared.

* * *

 

The lights on the other side of the portal were so bright, compared to the relative dimness of the Sanctum, that Hermione couldn’t make out much detail before she stepped through. Once there, her eyes adjusted, and she realized they weren’t inside a building at all, but on a balcony with a positively magnificent view of the city.

“JARVIS?” Stephen called, already striding into the open French doors.

Hermione followed him, and gave a little jump when a British-sounding voice came out of nowhere.

“Doctor Strange, how kind of you to visit. I shall let Sir know you have arrived.”

“No need,” Stephen replied to the voice, already striding off down the hallway. “I can show myself to the lab.”

“I am afraid I have already done so, Doctor Strange. However, I will refrain from introducing your guest before you have had an opportunity to do so yourself. This is Miss Granger, I presume?”

“Um, yes, I am,” Hermione stammered, looking around for the source of the voice as she hurried to keep up with Stephen. “And you’re Mr. Jarvis? Where are you?”

“Just JARVIS will do, Miss Granger, and you will not find me by looking. I am an artificial intelligence, integrated into Stark Tower.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, but then she nodded. “I see. Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, JARVIS.”

She had to half-run to keep up with Stephen as he moved through the corridors of this place, which was positively massive. (Curse that man and his ridiculously long legs.) They came to a sudden stop in front of a set of unassuming doors, Stephen scarcely pausing as he barged into the room beyond.

Hermione had thought this place was full of gleaming metal already, but by comparison to this room, the rest of the building was positively dull. The room was littered with an array of glittering objects - screws, electronics, flakes of metal like insect carapaces - all laid out precisely on nearly transparent tables, stretching in all directions, like arms of a galaxy.

In the galaxy’s center stood a man. He wasn’t a tall man, particularly, but he held himself like one. He was solidly built, without being stocky. His dark hair, too, was flecked like a star field.

“JARVIS, there’s an intruder in my workshop,” the man complained as he spun to face them. “Well,” he relented almost at once, giving Hermione the up-and-down, “one intruder, and one possibly-guest.”

“Stark,” Stephen intoned, sounding both serious and slightly annoyed.

“Strange,” the man called Stark replied, an odd expression on his face, “I don’t recall inviting you over for a playdate.” His words were flippant, but there was an undercurrent of tension there, as well.

“We’re invited tomorrow,” Hermione supplied, drawing the man’s attention. “We needed to know what kind of soiree to expect.”

Stark turned toward her again. “Tony Stark,” he introduced himself fully. “So, what? Dress code? You, Miss…”

“Granger,” Hermione supplied. “Hermione Granger.”

Tony gave her an appraising look. “Well, you, Miss Granger, may wear whatever you want to wear. Or don’t want to wear. Whatever.”

Hermione scowled. “First, stop that. It’s creepy. Second, that’s not precisely why we’re here.”

Tony put an aggrieved face, but confronted Stephen instead. “Why exactly are you here, then, hm? Party’s Saturday, and I’m working.”

Stephen put on his best unamused expression. “All the residents of the Sanctum were invited. We have some...reservations about whether or not everyone should attend. We need to know what you’re planning, Stark.”

“Planning?” Tony replied, mock-astonished. “I don’t plan anything around here. If you want details, you’ll have to talk to Pepper. She’s the one who’s putting on this show, anyway,” he grumbled.

“Then we won’t trouble you any longer,” Hermione said, spinning on her heel and walking out.

She sped along the corridor, working off her aggravation. She didn’t care where she went, so long as she put distance between herself and the arrogant git called Tony Stark.

She heard the click of hard shoes on the hallway behind her, someone making long, quick strides. It was Stephen’s turn to catch up with her, she thought wryly.

“Hermione, wait,” Stephen said, sounding somewhat out of breath as he jogged up behind her.

“Wait for what, exactly?” she huffed, still agitated. “If that’s your Tony Stark, I want no part of him.”

“He’s an ass, but he’s harmless,” Stephen said. “At least, he is now. He used to be quite the playboy, before he and Pepper got together. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Hermione rounded on him. “Listen,” she said, pointing down the corridor in the direction of the offending man, “I don’t care what he used to be like, I care what he’s like _now_. I can take being given the once-over by some sexist jerk, but there is no way I will allow him to subject Luna to such treatment. Not after what she went through. Oh, and by the way? It’s _not_ harmless. It’s _demeaning_ , and if you got it as often as we do, you’d know it.”

Stephen blinked in surprise, expression shifting to puzzlement, then concentrated thought. “No,” he said finally, “you’re right. We should at least talk to Pepper before we leave, to give her our regrets.”

“If I may intrude, sir,” came the voice of JARVIS from overhead, “Ms. Potts is currently in her office, with no appointments scheduled for the next half-hour, should you wish to speak with her.”

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Stephen replied, then turned to Hermione. “What do you say? Shall we go see her?”

Hermione looked up at him, considering. “Yes,” she said, “let’s do.”


	6. Chapter 6

The tread of two pairs of feet heralded Pepper’s visitors before even JARVIS had a chance to announce their arrival. She’d known they were coming, of course: the ever-efficient A.I. had alerted her to their presence the moment they’d opened the portal onto the balcony of Stark—no, Avengers—Tower. She’d tracked their progress through the building into Tony’s workshop, and the visit there had been brief enough. She’d had just enough time to clear her schedule before they were moving again, and headed her way. There was no way that she was going to let this lady-love of Stephen’s get out of _her_ Tower without at least getting to say hello.

Stephen had only come here a handful of times since Tony had made his acquaintance _somewhere_ (he’d never really said), but Pepper had found him to be an educated man, and quite charming. The last time she’d seen him had been sometime the previous spring, when he’d suddenly appeared in her office with a very interesting problem for her to solve. Then, for months, nothing.

They breezed in together, arm-in-arm, and Pepper could see at once that they were a good match. The woman’s brown eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence, and she smiled broadly at Pepper with confidence.

“Ms. Potts, I’m so glad to finally meet you at last. Stephen has told me a lot about you, and I must say, I’m quite impressed.”

“Please, call me Pepper,” she said, offering her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The woman took her hand firmly, without shaking it. “Hermione Granger. The pleasure is all mine.”

“I’d love to say I’d heard all about you,” Pepper continued, shaking a finger at Stephen, “but _someone_ has been keeping secrets from me.”

“I am sorry, Pepper, I did intend to introduce you two. Things have been rather busy lately.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Complicated, is it? You’ve been to dinner, to the opera, to opening night of the West Side Story revival if I’m not mistaken, and in and out of every coffee shop, bookstore and museum in greater Manhattan. Don’t tell me things have been too _busy_ to get across town to see a friend.”

“It’s my fault, Pepper, truly,” Hermione said, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. “I’m the one who hasn’t had time. At first I was adjusting to New York, and some...complications have arisen since then. That’s actually why we’re here.”

Pepper leaned back on her desk, arms crossed, waiting.

“I don’t think we can come to the party on Saturday,” Hermione said without preamble. “At least, not ‘every resident of 177A Bleecker Street,’ as was requested.”

“I see,” Pepper said, shifting forward a little. “Is this about your visitor?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she shot Stephen a look. 

“I have said nothing,” he replied, raising his hands.

“I have my sources,” Pepper smirked at nearly the same time.

“This is bad,” Hermione muttered. “If someone knows she’s here, it won’t be safe–”

Pepper laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “No one knows, aside from myself and my source. JARVIS has already ensured that the traffic and security cameras in that neighborhood all point discreetly away from 177A, to give you all a bit more privacy there. There is no footage, only one eyewitness account that you have anyone else there at all.”

“Eyewitness?” Hermione queried, brows knit together.

“Parker,” Stephen huffed, and rolled his eyes.

“Peter saw you by accident, is all,” Pepper explained. “No, I haven’t recruited him for anything that would keep him out of school,” she replied with a small frown. “He’s distracted enough as it is.”

“But you do have someone keeping tabs on us,” Stephen insisted. “Who is it?”

“I have my sources,” she demurred, “but you can trust in their utter professionalism and confidentiality.”

Hermione’s face crinkled, but she didn’t speak. Pepper knew that look - she’d seen it on Tony’s face many a time - and she could almost see the suspicious thoughts running across the woman’s face. No matter; it was a train of thought she could derail with ease. 

She shifted her gaze to Stephen’s companion. “If I may ask,” she began, in her most approachable voice, “what troubles you about Saturday’s party? If it’s security concerns, I can assure you, JARVIS has everything well in hand.”

The woman’s expression flickered with some turbulent emotion, too quickly for Pepper to identify it, but the complexity of it told her quite a lot already. “I’m not worried, exactly - not for myself, anyway. It’s just...I don’t know anything about it at all -- who will be there, what kind of people, and how many, anything! I can’t decide based on so little. There are simply too many variables, and not enough data.”

“Well then,” Pepper said reassuringly, “let me provide some data for you. This will be a small, private gathering - no cameras, no reporters, no fanfare of any kind. No more than a dozen in attendance, including yourselves, if you can make it. Just a few close friends having a quiet dinner, and perhaps some drinks afterwards.”

Hermione gave a slow nod, still hesitant. “And who else will be there, then? Besides you and Mr Stark, presumably?”

Pepper shifted her gaze to Stephen. “Steve will be there, and Nat, Clint, and Bruce, I believe. Nobody has a plus-one that I know of.”

Stephen nodded gravely, and laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “I believe that would not be a problem for any one of us.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked back and forth between her and Stephen. “If...if we can come, would there be somewhere we could go, if things get to be...too much?”

“Of course,” Pepper replied easily. “Indoors and out. We can even split off and leave the boys to their own devices, if you like.”

Hermione let out a slow breath. “I...think that might be manageable. I will ask, and get back to you, is that okay?”

Pepper gave Hermione her most brilliant smile. “That would be perfect.”

* * *

 

Hermione had elected to walk back to Bleecker Street, despite the chill in the air. She needed to clear her head, to analyze what she had seen, and to pick Stephen’s brain about the rest of the party invitees.

“And you’re certain that all of these blokes will, well, _behave_ themselves when it comes to Luna? Even Tony?”

“Especially Tony,” Stephen said. “Pepper will be there; there’s no way he’ll be an ass in front of her.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” Hermione frowned. “She seemed to know his worst behavior quite thoroughly.”

“Of course she does, she used to be his personal assistant. But Tony won’t step a toe out of line when Pepper’s around… at least, not regarding other women.”

“Not precisely reassuring, but if that’s your sense of things, that will have to do. All I can do is tell Luna and let her decide. It’s her choice, regardless.”

They strolled in silence after that for some time, through rows of brownstones and shuttered storefronts. It had been quite a long walk, but as much as Hermione had to think about, the time had flown by. They were nearly home now.

_Home._

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, hands clutching the edges of her coat sleeves. Stephen’s pace slowed abruptly, and his eyes crinkled in that scrutinizing way. “What is it??” He peered down at her, gray eyes searching. “Hermione, what’s wrong?”

She was slow to react, and even slower to speak. When she finally did, her words were halting, timorous. 

“I think,” she hazarded, eyes not quite meeting his, “that is, I mean, after all this time, it’s so odd…”

His hand reached out, delicately brushing the tips of her fingers as they clutched at the thick wool cuff. The movement was gentle: an invitation, no more.

Almost involuntarily, Hermione’s hands unclenched, and brushed against his. They were warm, his hands -- elegant, nimble fingers glowing slightly as they wrapped around her smaller, calloused hands in the gray afternoon light. 

Her voice faltered again as her thoughts whirled, far too many and to rapid to process at once. There was a tangle of emotion at the bottom of that thought, a Gordian knot of familiarity, hope, insecurity, and guilt. Again, the sense of monumental change rushed over her in a wave, the consequences of her decision to leave the Wizarding World becoming suddenly and terrifyingly more real than she could have imagined possible.

Once again, she’d uprooted her life, made a radical change based on minimal information from people she didn’t know well at all. When she had discovered she was a witch, and been given a place where she could truly practice all of the talents she possessed, that place had become her home. She had given herself over entirely to the Wizarding World, spending less and less time with her parents in the Muggle world. 

Now, again, she had divorced herself from the world she knew, abandoning the people she loved, and was now, what? Making friends? Reinventing herself? Insinuating herself into another group of extraordinary people? She couldn’t name anything wrong with where she was or what she was doing, but the similarities between coming to live at Bleecker Street and going to live at Hogwarts continually fed her doubts.

“Hermione,” came an insistent voice.  

Stephen’s hands were on her shoulders now, giving her a very slight shake. Hermione looked up at him, too dazed to otherwise respond.

“Hermione, do we need to go home?”

She nodded.

“Do you want to go the quick way?”

Another nod.

Taking Hermione’s arm, Stephen opened a portal, and the two of them stepped out of the cold city street and into Stephen’s study.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Wong heard the sizzle of a portal open just beyond the door to Strange’s study. He’d been searching in closets, wardrobes, even the pantry for his tux, which had perversely failed to appear. The girl Luna had been following him around again, occasionally praising him for the Sanctum’s very low-to-nonexistent populations of various unfamiliar creatures. He had no idea what the young woman was going on about, but the constant nattering seemed to bring her ease, so he made no effort to stop it.

They were downstairs now, checking the various pantries and armory cupboards, on the off chance that one of them had made the decision to spontaneously produce his one set of dress clothes. No sooner had the portal closed, but Luna’s patter had ceased. 

“Best put the kettle on,” she said, in an odd tone of voice, before taking off towards the kitchen.

Wong shrugged off this odd behavior - very little was normal with her - opting instead to pester Stephen, now that he and Hermione had (presumably) returned. 

He opened the door to find Strange settling an oddly quiet Hermione into her usual chair by the fire, before summoning a blanket and tucking it around her, by hand. 

“What did you do now?” he commented, cocking an eyebrow at Strange.

The other man ignored his teasing. “I’m not sure what caused it, but I believe she had a panic attack.” 

Before Wong could reply, Luna appeared at Hermione’s elbow, cup of tea in hand. How she’d gotten it to steep so quickly, Wong had no idea, but he suspected she had helped it along with magic. The brew was strong and dark, and, by the smell, sweetened within an inch of its life. Luna put the cup in Hermione’s unresisting hands, and instructed her to drink in a clear, kind voice that still managed to brook no argument. 

The change in Luna was startling, to say the least. She had spent so much of her first weeks here in silence, then gradually warmed up to him enough to ramble at him amiably as they worked together, making meals in the kitchen or cleaning out some of the older rooms in the Sanctum. This new Luna demanded that Hermione take care of herself, to take her time but drink her tea, and the change was stark, like she was being possessed by the spirit of a staunch English matron. 

Wong pulled Strange aside, and out of Luna’s way. “Stark was that bad?”

The other man sighed. “Stark was certainly his usual charming self, but this happened long afterward. We spoke with Pepper, and she gave us some reassurances about the party. We had already left the Tower, and Hermione was just telling me she’d let Luna decide for herself once we got back–”

“–home,” came a small voice from Hermione’s chair. 

Both men turned to see the two women, now ensconced together in the large wingback chair, Luna curled protectively around her friend. Hermione was sitting up straighter now, staring into the mug of tea she held in both hands.

“It was because we were going home,” she said, a bit more forcefully this time, a knife edge to her voice. “I just… this is my home now. It hit me suddenly, that’s all.” She took a sharp breath, and the sigh that followed shuddered through her. “I don’t belong there anymore.”

Strange raised his chin as realization dawned. He took a step towards her, but a glare from Luna slowed his approach. 

Wong took his friend by the arm, giving it a slight tug. “I believe they need a moment alone, Strange.”

Strange shrugged off his hand, but nodded in acquiescence. His face hadn’t left Hermione’s, when he spoke. “Is there anything you need?”

“No, I’m okay,” she replied absently, though Luna nudged her for it. “Something to eat might be good,” Hermione amended.

Wong nodded in assent for the both of them and pulled Stephen out of the room behind him.

* * *

“I don’t know what to do, Luna. Everything feels wrong.”

Luna considered this from her perch on the arm of the chair, the only place she could sit just a bit taller than her friend. She’d held her for a good long time, until Hermione had set the stone-cold, half-empty mug of tea on the side table to have a good, long cry. Catharsis was a good tonic to pain like theirs, Luna knew, and a particularly difficult thing for Hermione to allow herself. A glow warmer than a heliopath had settled in Luna’s chest when her friend had finally let all her grief loose, recognising the honor of complete trust implicit in that gesture.

From what she’d observed of Hermione’s relationship with both Wong and Stephen, the older witch was well on her way to making very good friends of them both. Some things, however, needed to be shared with people who really understood. The two men would sympathize with Hermione, but with the most intimate hurts, the gap between even empathy and experience was entirely too wide to bridge.

Sometimes, too, women just needed each other. 

Hermione could convince herself of the logic of the situation perfectly well, so there was no reason for Luna to make the attempt. She would already be presenting all the facts to herself - how both men treated her, how she held and comported herself in company and when she was alone, the differences between the place she’d been talked into as a child, and the one she’d chosen as an adult.

No, facts were not what Hermione needed, but confidence in herself -- and that was only achievable by her own actions, on her own merits. 

Luna couldn’t give her that, either.

So instead, she sat, and listened, not touching her friend but remaining near, if touch was wanted. She’d learned, in her friendships with both Harry and Rolf, that choice was the most important thing. You could not force people to be your friend, but if you were yourself and nearby, sometimes someone would choose you for friendship.

When she stopped crying, Hermione sat back in the chair, looking more relaxed - if worn - than she’d been in a long time. The usual warmth in her brown eyes was washed out, and tiny red prickles had begun to speckle her face around them, like a mask. She gave a wry, exhausted little laugh. “And to think, all of this because of a stupid drinks party.”

Luna gave her a small smile, and laid her hand on her own knee, close to Hermione’s arm. “It’s okay for us not to go, you know. I’ve been to a party before.”

Hermione took hold of her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Whether you go or not, Luna, should be your decision, not because of me. Pepper, the woman who invited us, seems kind and sensible, and I believe she would take any precautions you felt necessary, if you wanted to go.”

Luna hummed softly to herself. “I think perhaps I could, even if Wong has not yet found his tuxedo.”

This elicited a genuine laugh from Hermione. “Do you know, I think I would give quite a lot to see Wong in a tuxedo.”

Luna just smiled, the warmth in her chest spreading out into her limbs. “I would like that very much myself.”

* * *

Stephen didn’t notice when the two women walked into the kitchen, arm-in-arm, but when he looked up from the kitchen counter, they were taking their places at either side of the table. He didn’t miss the secret smiles they shared as they did so.

Wong had absented himself some time ago, with vague threats that Stephen should neither burn any of the food, nor break any of the cutlery in the process. Stephen had waved him off, intent in his preparations: chopping an array of vegetables, washing and de-stemming herbs, all from Wong’s garden. 

He didn’t know where in the Sanctum the man kept it, but it grew the most flavorful fresh produce at the oddest times of year. Wong was positively fussy about tomatoes for some reason, and refused to eat any of them grown out of season (which was most of the year), but apparently also had no desire to wait until summer to get them. Whatever the method, there were tomatoes at the peak of ripeness sitting on the counter in front of him right now, already cut into a rough dice. 

The incongruity of preparing summer meals in the dead of winter didn’t escape him. He held the Time Stone, after all. He was reasonably sure Wong wasn’t using it on the sly just to get quality vegetables.

“I didn’t know if we’d have time for something more complicated, so I’m making omelettes. Requests?”

The two women stood again, surveying the array of bowls in front of him. “More complicated?” Hermione wore a mostly-unreadable but amused expression. “More than this?”

“Fair point,” he conceded. “I wanted to keep the options open.”

“He wanted to keep his hands busy,” Wong commented dryly from the doorway. “Are you certain you aren’t actually young underneath all that gray hair, Strange? You have an awful lot of energy for an old man.”

Stephen would have rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time this evening, except for the distraction of the blush that arose in Hermione’s face.

Luna, blessedly, broke the sudden embarrassed tension in the room. “It was very kind of you to pick all my favorite vegetables, Stephen. Especially the wolf-peaches. Wherever did you find them this time of year?”

“I grew them,” Wong replied into the stunned silence. 

“Oh, tomatoes–” Hermione began.

“ _ Solanum lycopersicum _ , of course,” Stephen finished

“They look delicious, Wong,” Luna gushed, “though I hate to ruin them with cooking.”

“Some of all this can double as salad,” Stephen supplied, bringing an expression of relief to the young woman’s face.

“Yammering like this won’t make dinner,” Wong grumbled, though Stephen thought he sounded a bit pleased under his usual grumpiness. Then Hermione’s stomach growled. 

“Alright then, since it seems to be unanimous,” he mock-groused, throwing a wink Hermione’s way. The smile he got in return was well worth letting Wong boss him around a little.

It didn’t take long for them all to be summarily fed - the ladies first, Wong and himself last. Wong plated the salads, leaving just the right amount of room for each omelette, while Stephen did the actual cooking. 

It was a quiet meal, the women sharing the table, Stephen and Wong leaning against the counter instead. This time, there was no discomfort or embarrassment in the silence. Instead, a feeling of contentment seemed to suffuse them all. Even Wong lost some of his normally grumpy demeanor. 

“I think,” Luna said as she brought her dishes to the sink, “that we should go tomorrow.”

Hermione looked up from chasing the last bits of salad around on her plate. “Are you certain, Luna?”

The younger woman got that dreamy look in her eyes that she so often wore these days, like she was looking through the wall into the next room. “Oh, yes. I will have to leave the Sanctum, if I am to have any hope of studying the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Stephen and Wong both gave Hermione a sidelong look, but she just shrugged. “It’s as good a reason as any, I suppose.”


End file.
